The Dying of the Light
by Ruadhnait
Summary: A tale of the House of Fëanor, and specifically Celegorm, in the latter years of Beleriand. Still very much WIP, so please constructive feedback. Rating will change.
1. Chapter 1

**The Dying of the Light**

_The world ended slowly, like a scarf unraveling._

_ -E.K. Ringo_

The sun was sinking below the western horizon and a chill wind was rising by the time they reached Himring. They had ridden hard all day, and their horse was exhausted, sides slick with sweat. Celegorm leapt off too quickly, and he bent double, breathing heavily, then straightened up, pushing loose strands of hair out of his face. Curufin swung down after him, showing none of the same signs of exhaustion. In fact, he seemed to be animated by some evil energy as he stalked forward, eyes burning like cold fire, leaving Celegorm to walk slowly behind him with the horse.

Maedhros was waiting for them at the gates, his face troubled. "Tyelko, Curvo," he said. "What happened? Where's Huan?" Celegorm dropped his gaze to the ground. "Tyelko?"

"We have ridden all day," Curufin broke in coolly. "Some wine, perhaps? And leave to catch our breath before we are…interrogated?" Maedhros subsided, and let them pass, then followed them into the courtyard.

He asked them no more questions, not until they were seated in his quarters far above the courtyard and any listening ears. He gave them both wine, as they had requested: Curufin took a long pull at his, his eyes fixed on some point in the stone wall. Celegorm toyed with his for a while, then looked up at his elder brother with disconsolate eyes, flinging himself back on the couch with a heavy sigh. Maedhros watched him with a concerned gaze, then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Now. Tell me. What happened?" Celegorm bit his lip, but Curufin made no sign. Finally he said,

"This may take a while."

"I am waiting," Maedhros replied, in a soft, indeed almost dangerous tone.

"Artaresto expelled us from Nargothrond," Celegorm said wearily.

"Artaresto?" Maedhros said quickly. "I thought Findaráto-"

"You have heard of Lúthien, of course," Curufin said suddenly.

"Thingol's daughter. But what has she to do with this?"

"Lúthien has taken a mortal lover," continued Curufin, "by the name of Beren son of Barahir." Maedhros nodded slowly.

"Findaráto promised to aid Barahir and his kin in any need."

"Thingol would not give consent for Lúthien to wed Beren until he brought back a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. Yes, brother," he said with a crooked smile, "it seems that our oath may awaken again soon. Anyway. Beren came to Nargothrond, of course- Findaráto set out to help him. They made it to Tol-in-Gaurhoth." Curufin's smile widened. "I have been told that Findaráto's death was very valiant. It is a pity, really. Especially with such _scanty_ help from his own people," he said, his tone laced with mock regret.

"How many were with him?" Maedhros' frown deepened.

"Beren," Curufin rejoined, "and ten others."

"Curufin-"

"I said a few words, yes."

Maedhros leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair exasperatedly. "Curufin, do you realize what you've done?"

Curufin shrugged. "It was the only way."

"You sent Findaráto to his death," Maedhros repeated disbelievingly, "so that with Artaresto on the throne, you could control him as easily as you did the rest of his people."

"In principle, yes. In practice, however…" Curufin's smile grew defiant. "Findaráto's brother proved to have _slightly_ more spine than we anticipated."

"He cast you out."

"Yes."  
"And none of your own people followed you."

"Yes."

After a long silence, Celegorm added, "Artaresto declared that there should always be enmity between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor."

Maedhros shook his head. "I- wish you hadn't done that," he said heavily. "But I suppose that doesn't matter much, not now. We have lost Nargothrond as an ally, of course-"

"Lúthien," Celegorm interrupted. Maedhros cast an irritated glance in his direction.

"What about her?"

"We found her. Or Huan did. We were hunting." His voice was flat, expressionless. "She told us everything. She was going after Beren. I said we'd help her." He raised despairing eyes to Maedhros'. "I was going to marry her."

"So you could gain Doriath," Maedhros said softly. "You fool."

"She escaped. With Huan. No, he came back later. It was only after we left Nargothrond-" Curufin's fingers tightened around his cup, the knuckles whitening. Celegorm glanced at him before continuing. "We came upon them in the woods. Curvo tried to take Lúthien, and Beren pulled him off his horse. Tried to strangle him. We got away, but they took Curufin's horse, and Angcrist. Huan went with them."

After a long silence, Maedhros stood and walked slowly over to the window.

"Maitimo," Celegorm said. "We had nowhere else to go."

"Carnistir would not have turned you away," Maedhros said without turning.

"We came to you," Celegorm said softly.

"I know," Maedhros said heavily, then turned back to face his brothers. "I should send you away. I should finish what Artaresto neglected and have you killed. But since I am a fool, and a sentimental fool at that," he said with a small, sad smile, "I will let you stay."

Neither Celegorm nor Curufin said anything. "I'll have you know this inconveniences me terribly," Maedhros continued matter-of-factly. "More divisions, more hostilities…" He trailed off. "You know Artaresto is one of the few left with a realm and an army to his name. I couldn't really afford to lose him. And Thingol. We all hate him, but he does have the greatest power of any of us…I can't say you have disgraced our House, of course. Father would have done just the same, only perhaps he would have succeeded." Curufin's eyes were hard, like steel. "I'll write to Amon Ereb and tell Carnistir and Ambarussa to come. Makalaurë too. He's been hunting in Ossiriand…" He flipped through the papers on his desk, searching for a fresh sheet of parchment. "I don't blame you, not really, you know that, don't you? I wish you hadn't done…all that, but I should have seen it coming, should have kept you closer." He shook his head. "I'm sorry about Huan, Tyelko. And as your eldest brother and now your rightful lord," he added, cracking a smile, "I am ordering both of you to go to bed and get some sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

It must have been before dawn the next morning that Celegorm (whom sleep had abandoned entirely) saw Maedhros stepping out of his study, freshly sealed letter in hand. "You write fast," he observed.

Maedhros shrugged. "No doubt the messenger will take a while to deliver it, provided he makes it to Amon Ereb at all." He paused, observing Celegorm, still fully clothed, with dark shadowy circles under his eyes. "I see Irmo has chosen to disfavor you this night as well," he remarked wryly.

Celegorm nodded briefly. "What was it that Father said to Makalaurë the first time he said that after we left Valinor?"

"He said, 'We don't say those words anymore,' " Maedhros answered, half returning the smile, before he turned to give the letter to the yawning messenger who stood before him.

Celegorm slipped away before Maedhros was done speaking to the messenger. An hour, then two, passed as he wandered through the dim halls of the silent house, lit only by a sputtering torch here and there. The grey light of the pale dawn was filtering in through the closed shutters and casting vague shadows on the stone flags of the floor and the dusty walls when he found Curufin sitting by himself, not far from where Celegorm had first spoken to Maedhros that morning.

"You're early," he observed as Celegorm drew closer.

Celegorm shrugged. "Desperate times."

After a short pause, Curufin said, "I hope you're not sulking, brother. We may be here for a while."

Celegorm sighed. "At least until we annihilate Nargothrond and have the pleasure of seeing the blood of Artaresto and his kin drip from our swords."

"Don't forget Doriath," Curufin added lightly. Then he stood rapidly. He was a good head shorter than his older brother, but he threw back his head and met Celegorm's gaze defiantly. "What's eating at you, Tyelko?"

Celegorm sat, heavily, feeling the cold marble edge of the bench dig into his palms. "Why did you do that, Curvo?"

"Do what?" The faintest flicker of bewilderment passed over his face.

"Fail. Curufinwë- _Atarinkë_ - has it never occurred to you that Father would never have let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers?"  
"Be careful where you tread, brother," Curufin said evenly.

"We were supposed to win," Celegorm said disconsolately. "I did everything you told me. Now where is the reward you promised?"

"I promised you nothing," Curufin snarled suddenly. "Don't hold me accountable for this. I did what I could."

"It wasn't enough, was it? It never is. You told me, before we began, that this was how Father would have wanted it. Tell me now. Is this what he wanted for us?" Celegorm had risen from his seat, and the two were circling each other warily, like wild beasts. "You failed him. You always do. We were supposed to reap of the spoils of his- your- victory. I would hardly call this a victory." Curufin stood still, his eyes boring into Celegorm's.

"You speak of what you know nothing," he said softly. "Take care."

"You were his favorite," Celegorm said bitterly. "He always looked on you with more pride than the rest of us. He gave you his _name_, damn it. Is this nothing to you?"

"We owe him everything," Curufin murmured. "Our lives. I swear not a day will go by that I do not think on what he left us."

"A curse."

"A mission," Curufin corrected him, a trace of his familiar sardonic smile touching his lips. "And one which I swear before whatever gods there be I will die fulfilling." He spoke lightly, but the fire burning in his eyes did not escape Celegorm's notice.

Perhaps a week or so later, one of the guards noticed the small cloud of dust rising from the plain twenty or so miles away. Even at that distance the distinct shapes of Orcs and wolfriders could be seen.

Celegorm, who had been one of the first to raise the alarm, could not help but admire the speed and accuracy with which the entire fortress sprang into action. The air was filled with the metallic clangs of armor and weapons, the high-pitched whinnies of horses, and the shouts of the men. Maedhros had trained his warriors well, there in that secluded fortress between the wilderness and the realm of Angband.

He found his brother hastily buckling his sword belt. "Tyelko. You're here. Look, I've got to drive these back. This is the largest open attack we've seen in years. Stay here," he said, as his page handed him his helm. "No, I don't care what Curvo says, or what my men say about you staying back and being a coward."

"I want to fight," Celegorm insisted. "Maitimo, why are we even arguing about this? I'm no longer a child. I can handle a sword. You need to stop trying to protect me."

"I stopped doing that a long time ago." Maedhros turned to face him. "Tyelko, Tyelko, don't you understand that I don't have time for this? I may not return. I need you to lead those who are left." He looked at Celegorm, almost pleading. "Please, Tyelko."

"All right," Celegorm said heavily. He stepped forward and placed his hand on Maedhros' forearm. "Be safe."

Maedhros embraced him briefly. "I will."

Curufin joined him in the courtyard a few minutes later, silent and cold, his lips pressed together, eyes blazing with barely restrained anger.

It was around mid-morning, with the brilliant sunlight blazing on the rows of burnished swords and shields. The entire mounted host of Himring- many exiles and children of exiles from Valinor, a fair number of Sindar and Atani- were arrayed in close ranks behind Maedhros on his great bay horse, his fiery hair loose around his shoulders.

"Forward!" he cried, and the answering roar seemed to shake the very foundations of Himring. Maedhros, Celegorm mused, had never been one for lengthy pre-battle speeches, especially not with the enemy so near and so threatening.

However, they had never been necessary, not with Maedhros. The fire of his hatred, his lust for revenge upon Morgoth seemed to sweep from his solitary figure and set the whole host aflame. His hate was their hate; they leaned forward in their saddles and cried with one voice, for revenge: his fire was in the fire in their eyes and in their swords as they swept forward from the gates of Himring like a great storm of wind, leaving behind the dust clouding the air, and the echoes of a thousand thunderous hoofbeats.

Beside Celegorm, Curufin did not smile. "There will be blood." Celegorm nodded.

"Close the gates…if they can, they will try to gain the hill and scale the walls."

"I think Maedhros can hold them off, or most of them, but no doubt they'll have brought ladders, and perhaps even catapults-"

Celegorm set his jaw. "We'll be ready."

It was not an easy victory, but a victory it was nonetheless. Maedhros seemed to inspire some of the same fear into the Orcs that he had in the Dagor Bragollach, when they very legions of Morgoth had fled before his face. Three times the Orcs nearly gained the hill, and three times Maedhros and his cavalry beat the, back, aided by archers from the walls. By nightfall, the plains before Himring were dark with blood and littered with the bodies of Elf and Orc alike. And if Maedhros came back drenched in sweat and splattered with gore, the blaze of triumph in his eyes was unmistakable.

Celegorm felt foolishly proud. "You fought well, brother." Maedhros, still breathing hard and unable to speak, nodded.

They were standing on the walls, watching the night fall over the broad plains stretching before Himring, when Maedhros laughed incredulously. Celegorm frowned. "What?"

"There," he said, pointing at the two lone figures on horseback far in the distance, barely visible in the twilight.

"Makalaurë." Celegorm glanced at Maedhros. "And Ambarussa. They've made it."

"Come, brother," Maedhros said, half laughing still, his teeth very white in the swiftly falling darkness. "Let's go greet them."

The insane joy of victory, Celegorm thought, was still very much upon Maedhros, and beyond it utter weariness, as he watched him run forward and embrace Maglor and Amras. The three seemed very far removed, even though they stood only across the courtyard. Maglor said something to Maedhros that Celegorm could not hear, and smiled quickly as Maedhros threw back his head and laughed.

Curufin was standing beside them, smiling his sardonic smile, and Maglor and Amras were there, still with the dust and sweat of long travel on them. Celegorm started towards them.

"You're here." His voice was muffled in Maglor's shoulder.

"So I am, little brother." Maglor took a step back, holding Celegorm at arm's length. "Carnistir couldn't come. He felt it necessary to stay back and repel the repeated raids upon Amon Ereb."

Celegorm nodded. "We've had something of the same trouble. Though I daresay the Orcs will not attack us again soon." He cast a laughing glance at Maedhros.

"Tyelko, I do believe you've grown since I last saw you." Maglor grinned as Celegorm rolled his eyes. Behind them, Amras looked stricken, indeed almost panicked. Celegorm went over to him.

"Ambarussa, what's wrong?"

Maglor's smile faded. "Maitimo tells me-"

"Let's go inside," Curufin cut in smoothly.

They decided to forego the usual post-victory feast, instead leaving the drinking and carousing to their men. The shouts and laughter and singing drifted up to the room where the five of them sat. It felt altogether too much like a council of war to Celegorm, and he shifted uncomfortably where he was seated between Maedhros and Amras.

They had to tell Maglor and Amras the whole story, of course. Curufin's look was almost triumphant where he sat a little apart from the rest of them, arms folded, his face in shadow. Amras showed no reaction, only closed his eyes and bowed his head almost reverentially, Celegorm noted with a small stab of irritation.

Maglor cried out softly and dug his fingers into his palms when they told of Finrod's death: too late Celegorm remembered the friendship they had shared, the yearning for each other as of two kindred spirits, from poet to poet, the long hours spent hunting together, the way they seemed to communicate at a level far transcending speech.

When they were finished, Maglor spoke, and his voice was low and ugly. "I could hate you."

Curufin shrugged. "Love us, hate us, do what you will, Makalaurë. The thing is done, and cannot be undone."

Maedhros placed a hand on Maglor's shoulder. "Don't be hard on them, Káno. They…" he trailed off.

Maglor sighed. "I suppose I expect too much of you," he said bitterly. "I should have known…" His eyes were unnaturally bright, and he leaned his head into his hands.

"The real question is, what do we do now?" Nobody could remember later who spoke those words.

"We make war, of course," Curufin said sardonically. "I am _surprised_ that you did not think of that before."

**Quenya name translations (I apologize for not putting these up before):**

**Maitimo- Maedhros**

**Makalaurë/Káno- Maglor**

**Tyelkormo/Tyelko- Celegorm**

**Carnistir- Caranthir**

**Curufinwë/Atarinkë/Curvo- Curufin**

**Ambarussa- Amras**

**As ought to be evident by now, I am following the version of the Sil where one of the twins died at Losgar.**

**And I thought I'd share with you that I'm currently listening to the absolutely phenomenal fanmix "Epitaph On a Tyrant" by my friend Lise.**

**Rating will change in the next chapter.**


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